


not silver nor gold

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [29]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>do u want me to text u when im in sochi?</i> Jake sends him. At nineteen, Jake wouldn’t have asked, would have just gone ahead and done it, even if David didn’t respond.</p><p><i>I’d rather you didn’t</i>, David sends back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not silver nor gold

David keeps playing well. He isn’t always first — there are two other players who’ve taken the spot for a game or two — but he’s always in the top three, and usually the spot he’s in is the top one.

December comes and goes. David spends Christmas in New York. A Canadian left-winger on Team Canada’s roster, meant for the second line, David would think, breaks his hand, and the articles are all saying David should take his place. David knows he won’t. He wasn’t invited to training camp in the first place, and training camp is where you learn how players interact, which lines have chemistry, who fits and who doesn’t. Even so, when Team Canada gives the nod to Thomson, who has five goals on the season, is below zero in plus/minus, David has to swallow the bile down.

No one else on Team Canada’s roster gets knocked out by injury. They’re lucky. Oleg’s been in a mood since a KHL all-star, likely meant to be his linemate and definitely meant to be Team Russia’s captain, broke his foot, which added to the frustration of losing two of their intended defencemen to other injuries. They’re on the road the last game of the season, a tight loss to Philadelphia, and Oleg takes the flight back with them with a giant suitcase he’s towed all road trip, has to get on the next plane out, muttering about how half the charter is going to be Team USA guys and the other half Team Canada. “I am sitting with a Swede,” Oleg decides. 

“Canadians are nice,” David says in automatic defence.

“Not about hockey,” Oleg says, which David can’t really argue. “I am sitting with a Swede,” he repeats. “Maybe a Finn. Or a Dane.” He’s the only Islander and apparently the only Russian on his flight — there are Team Russia players in the NHL, but they’re on different charters. “They will not talk all flight.”

“I don’t talk all flight,” David says. He’s talking right now, but Oleg started it.

“If you were going I would sit with you,” Oleg says.

David flinches.

“Sorry,” Oleg says. “Sorry.”

“No,” David says. “It’s fine.”

*

Typically, David would stay in NYC on a short break, but the idea of being a spectator in a hostile audience is nauseating. Their own fans will shout U-S-A after David or Oleg score on a Canadian team, and it’s been ramping up all season, like people are practicing. Last week, to Oleg’s amusement after, they chanted it after Oleg’s goal on Ottawa’s American goaltender, in some strange reversion of Anti-Soviet sentiment. David thinks Cesar is from New York State. He wonders how amused he was.

The last thing he wants to do is be in the States, surrounded by a sotto chorus of voices shouting U-S-A, presumably for American players this time. To see the venom that comes with international competitions. David played one of his Juniors in the States, and it was exhausting, especially after they won Gold and the aggression flared. 

He isn’t playing — he isn’t thinking about it — but Oleg is, and David wonders how Islanders fans are going to square it in their heads, whether they’ll loathe him if he plays the US, hope he’s crushed, hope his heart breaks, even if they’ve loved him for a decade, even though Team USA’s number one goalie is a Ranger. Whether they’ll pretend, when he’s back, that they never faltered. The blind nationalism leaves a bad taste in David’s mouth, the endless articles prematurely tearing apart Team Canada no better, but then, he wasn’t asked to be an ambassador of it, so it’s irrelevant how he feels.

He could go to Ottawa, to anywhere — go to some tropical destination that doesn’t show the games and doesn’t have wifi so he could check the scores — but he books a hotel in Toronto. In Toronto he can disappear, the same as New York, as long as he’s careful — Torontonians are more likely to recognise him than New Yorkers. But he can’t go home, sit in a hotel and expect there won’t be a tremor, someone noting his presence, so Toronto it is.

He’s still in New York, trying and failing to get some sleep before an early flight to Billy Bishop when he gets a text from Jake. Either he’s landed somewhere in Europe for refueling, on the same flight as Oleg, or he hasn’t left yet, because he had a game of his own in Florida. They lost. That’s not unusual for the Panthers.

 _do u want me to text u when im in sochi?_ Jake sends him. At nineteen, Jake wouldn’t have asked, would have just gone ahead and done it, even if David didn’t respond.

 _I’d rather you didn’t_ , David sends back.

 _ok. good luck to Cananda hope u guys get silver_ , Jake responds.

David frowns at the text, mostly because he wasn’t aware it was possible to misspell Canada, especially when you had _lived_ there for two years. _We won’t._ he writes. Feels strange using the word ‘we’ when he won’t be playing for them. Adds, _Text when you get back_ after a moment, because he doesn’t want Jake to think he doesn’t want him to text him anymore, just because he doesn’t want updates from Sochi.

*

They don’t get Silver. The USA doesn’t either. Silver goes to the Swedes, none of whom David knows personally. They have the familiar look of downtrodden defeat when they’re shaking hands with Canada’s line-up. David knows that feeling, the feeling of having personally let your country down. Perhaps not in the Olympics, but he’s played his share of international competitions, knows the bitterness, the humiliation that comes with it, the worry that you’re personally responsible. How hard it is to smile when you’re given a token for second best, and how if you don’t they’ll say you’re a sore loser. 

He turns the game off before the medal ceremony. He doesn’t need to see it, he knows how it goes.

Russia took Bronze, earlier, and as David predicted the backlash against Oleg is harsh. He wasn’t looking for it, really, just wanted to see some of the recaps, because he’d missed it, he missed all the USA games except for the ones against Canada. It wasn’t on purpose. There’s a pretty big time difference, and David may wake up early, but that doesn’t mean he wants to watch hockey while eating breakfast.

He knows, even as he does it, that reading the game summary’s a bad idea. The article isn’t that bad itself — it has a few jabs in it, a few things that shows it isn’t really objective, but the comments are horrible. David reads them, can’t stop even though he wants to, and among the anger towards the Russians, towards Oleg specifically, the slurs and profanity, the _hatred_ , there are still comments hoping Canada will burn, still focused on the semi-final rather than the Bronze Medal game. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand the bile. His name’s even there, despite the fact he’s still rooted in North America, so far from everything: _kurmazovs a fag what do u expect the whole isles first line is a bunch of fags chapmans the biggest fag ive ever seen_. It’s followed by a comment with a Islanders avatar, _Your just jealous we’re going to get the art ross this year_. 

David turns his computer off. He knows he’s supposed to shut it down properly, but it’s more satisfying to hold the power button until everything goes black. Dave’s always told him to stay the hell away from comments on the internet, from the articles to the comments, tweets or fansites. David’s generally followed that. He’s reminded why.

‘Dave knows best,’ his mother said, whenever anything hockey related came up, and Dave does, honestly. He never played hockey professionally himself, and if he had it would have been before the internet was the key way of communication, but David assumes previous clients have made the mistake, come to regret it. He wonders what they’re saying about Jake. He wasn’t mentioned in the article David read, which David supposes means he was irrelevant. He didn’t make much of an impact in the semi-final either.

He’s not going to turn his computer on to check. Instead he texts, _Sorry._ to Jake. Texts _Congratulations._ to Oleg. Finishes packing. The Canada-Sweden game was early enough he’ll be out by check-out time. It’s odd, not even ten in the morning and everyone’s got their medals. Except Jake, David supposes. No medal for fourth place, though plenty would say there’s no shame in it. Eisler played for Germany, and he was beaming after they pulled off only losing by one against one of the Big Six. He sent David a text of smiley faces and German David didn’t understand after that game — David assumes he sent it to everyone in his phone book, German or not. It still made David smile. 

There’s something small, mean in him that likes the fact that Jake lost, that Jake lost for once. A thread of something that feels like he did during the Juniors, shaking Jake’s hand in the handshake line and hoping he liked being served silver between the teeth as much as David had. He pushes the thought down. It doesn’t matter if Jake lost, anyway, Canada’s team isn’t his any more than it’s every Canadian’s. It’s not his win. There’s no way to know whether he’d be ducking his head so that the Gold could settle against his chest, or if Thomson, who had a goal in the Gold medal game and another in the Quarter Final, would have proved the difference, and with David, Canada would have settled for Silver or worse. It’s not worth thinking about.

*

 _next time_ Jake sends him, when David’s waiting to board the plane to New York. David wonders if he’s packing too, if he’s already packed, sitting in the Sochi airport, waiting for his flight. Team USA are all probably going to NYC together, before they split up to go to their respective cities.

 _Next time you’ll play me._ David returns.

 _uh oh_ Jake says. _have some pity for a poor american_.

 _Not a chance._ David writes, then, before the text disappears from his screen, _Are you landing in NYC?_

_ya. 3hr layover. u goin 2 buy me a drink 2 make up 4 ur mean country?_

JFK’s well out of David’s way, especially since he doesn’t drive. _Are you okay with going through security again?_ he asks.

 _ya. used to it!_ Jake responds immediately. 

_Okay._ , David sends. _Send me your flight info._

Jake’s getting in late that night, not even JFK, but Newark, which is even more inconvenient, and not really New York — not even New York _State_ — which is irritating. David wonders if they’re bundling all the players by destination city, irrelevant of nationality, and hopes not. It doesn’t seem like a very good idea. Maybe if there’s sections, or something, Team Canada players a buffer between the US and Russian players, because apparently it got chippy toward the send. Canada never played Russia, so there’s no real animosity there, beyond whatever there may be from NHL allegiances, and David supposes there must be as much animosity from NHL allegiances amongst Team Canada itself. You just push it aside on behalf of the country. David had to be on a line with a QMJHL player half a head taller than him who’d always gone after him, left bruises on him, deep and black, whenever they’d played one another. He’s in the AHL now, has played less than a handful of NHL games, and David can’t really say he feels sorry for him, even though he wasn’t rude or anything when they were on the same team.

David isn’t home all that long before he has to take an exorbitant cab ride out to New Jersey. The cab driver said it was an airport special, but it seems to cost even more than it typically would. It’s the sort of thing his father would argue, even if it was a smaller amount, for ‘the principle of the thing’. David doesn’t say anything. He tips the usual amount.

Even after almost three weeks in Sochi, Jake’s tanned dark, that endless Florida tan. He looks tired. He doesn’t see David until he’s a few steps away. David knows that, because when he does, he smiles wide.

“Hey,” he says, tugs David in for a hug, loose, the one players share amongst themselves. The acceptable kind. 

They walk to Departures. The wind’s fierce outside, even under the concrete. All the bars are past security, David imagines, so instead they grab drinks at a convenience store in front of United, a water for David, an energy drink for Jake, who still has half the night until he gets home.

There aren’t many chairs around, no reason to linger until you’re past security, but there’s a ledge cut out by a window, and they sit there. Jake’s got a backpack but no luggage — it’s getting loaded, independent of him, onto the plane to Detroit. He tucks his knees up, sitting crosswise on the ledge, but it doesn’t make him small.

David doesn’t know why he’s here. 

Jake nudges him with his shoe. “In the handshake line Kurmazov told me to be careful.”

“Pardon me?” David says.

“I keep thinking about it,” Jake says, instead of repeating what he said. Which is fine. David heard him. “Like, does he mean be careful with you or about you?”

“I don’t know,” David says. “Sorry he — he shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s cool,” Jake says. “He totally should’ve. I just wonder which one he meant.”

“I don’t know,” David repeats, and he doesn’t.

"Me either," Jake says, and then with a grin that tilts crooked, "let's find out."

That doesn't sound like a very good idea, but David doesn't say so.

**Author's Note:**

> All Sochi results are accurate barring a swap between Russia and Finland. I would like to apologise to Finland for taking the Bronze away from them. It was well-deserved. I will make it up to you somehow, Finland.


End file.
